


The Quiet Life Was Never for Us

by Ozymanreis



Series: The Other Game [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Jim, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Lies, M/M, Marital Difficulties, Ransom, Secrets, Sheriarty - Freeform, Violence, consulting husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With their son captured, Sherlock and Jim must team up to get him back. The game is back on in a very real way, and neither participant is willing to admit that this time the consequences for losing are frightening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anything But Meticulous

It had been deceptively simple. The Watson's house wasn't the most secure of places, but why would it be? It was for a completely average couple, living an ordinary life. Except this particular weekend, they had invited a dangerous variable to live in their home.

William Scott Holmes-Moriarty was a normal baby, by most definitions. His slow-brewing super genius intellect would become relevant later, but as of now, he didn't even have full control of his limbs, let alone control of the world. Yet, his associations made him a powerful asset: a bargaining chip, the ultimate pressure point for the most influential crime lord the world had ever seen. 

To John and Mary Watson, he was only a precious godson; this was their mistake.

Devon Gaspar, a former lieutenant of Moriarty's, had absolutely no trouble tracking William's location. But as long as the child was in the custody of the consulting criminal, he was far too afraid to get _close_. 

Thankfully, James couldn't be around 24/7, and neither could his protective detail. The opportunity was perfect. But Gaspar wasn't working alone; he wasn't even aware Moriarty had a child until his mysterious new boss had approached him via text and strategically hidden envelopes. Without this new force of darkness, Devon would never have even _considered_ turning on Moriarty. 

But everyone has their price. Devon's was being back in the right-hand seat of power. Being fired from Moriarty's purchase wasn't nearly as bad as being _killed_ for his failures, but it still stung. 

Scaling the fire escape had been easy enough. Creeping through the unlocked kitchen window, Gaspar's memorized map of the Watson's layout made it easy to find the children's room. 

His orders were specifically to take the criminal's son (he idly wondered who the mother was — what poor soul would choose to reproduce with such insanity?), and take the Watson's daughter, if convenient. But Devon was an overachiever. 

Aiming to cause panic, he began by making a "mistake." After drugging the children so they wouldn't cry, he went back into the kitchen and knocked over a few glasses. 

John and Mary woke with a start — was there an intruder? Was it the wind? But when they heard rustling in the children's room, it was clear it was the former. 

Rushing in, John pulled out his gun, but was quickly disarmed as Devon struck his head. He hadn't lost consciousness, but was disoriented enough that he struggled to get back up. Using a knockout gas, Gaspar neutralized Mary and called in the rest of his men. 

John could only watch as they carried away his wife and the babies. Blacking out, he almost managed to hit "call" to contact the police. 

 

* * *

 

Upon waking, Watson knew it was too late to pursue them himself. Immediately after contacting Lestrade, he hopelessly tried to get ahold of Sherlock. 

_He's probably asleep… What time is it in Hawaii? Or maybe he just doesn't want to be interrupted on his honeymoon… I understand that, but his CHILD HAS BEEN KIDNAPPED!!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Devon Gaspar is a character blatantly lifted from "Elementary," but I don't think of this as a crossover, so much as enjoying how the other show fleshed out Moriarty's criminal web — of course it's not JUST him.


	2. Ransom

The email arrived the moment Sherlock and Jim touched down at Heathrow: 

 

_Dear Jim,_

 

_I took something you love. You've got something I want. Shall we arrange a trade?_

 

_The pool sounds about right for another confrontation, doesn't it? Midnight is the general appointment, right? I'll take it. Your husband is free to attend, so long as he can keep his murderous instincts at bay… I'd warn you of the same, but you're more rational than that._

 

_Come armed or unarmed, it doesn't matter, I will be coming alone, without any weapons. I'll just give you the information that our interactions will be monitored, and if any harm comes to me, my associates will make sure William meets a rather unpleasant end._

 

_I look forward to finally meeting you._

 

_-J._

 

Immediately, Sherlock's mind raced through a possible list of suspects, but decides it would be easier to focus on what the mysterious "J" wanted from James. But that could be a great many things — even the detective, with his obsession for all cases that could even _possibly_ involve "Moriarty," couldn't name all that the criminal mastermind had acquired. 

"What do you have?" Sherlock asks as Jim was pulling them into one of his cars. 

"That's worth kidnapping our child for? _Nothing_." His voice was pure rage.

"Obviously they think so."

"Well they are going to be sorely disappointed." Jim began texting furiously.

Sherlock gave up on that line of questioning, _Jim will tell me when he feels like letting me into the loop…_ He ran through a list of crimes he knew Moriarty was responsible for, for the third time that day. Even focusing on the large robberies, Sherlock couldn't narrow it down, _They must not want money, they would've just said so… but Jim doesn't like stealing money anyway. He's got that. Most of his significant crimes involve historical artifacts…_

"It's about nine, now… that gives us three hours." Jim mused, "Let's pay the doctor a visit. He was there, they took his family as well. He might have information we don't."

Nodding slowly, Sherlock dimly registers something growing in his chest: excitement. This is a puzzle. _How I have missed our games…_ he shudders, _Why do I feel so… bad? Yes, bad. I feel_ guilty _about enjoying myself on this one… because something I care about is at stake? Yes. William isn't just any hostage…_

Lost in introspective thought, Sherlock doesn't notice Moriarty's frantic expression. 

 

* * *

 

Subsequently, another email is sent out to John:

 

_Dear Mr. Watson,_

 

_Please forgive me for what I had to do, I really have nothing against you or Mary. If you'd like someone to blame, please direct your attentions to Mr. Holmes — I had to make sure he understood the gravity of this situation, and you were the best way to his heart, other than taking the baby and beloved husband. And I already took the baby._

 

_Unfortunately, kidnapping Mr. Moriarty wouldn't get me results. No, this had to hurt rather badly. Thanks sincerely for your participation._

 

_Rest assured, as long as nothing goes wrong with our hostage exchange, your loved ones will be returned to you intact. Feel free not to attend our meeting, but please make sure Sherlock and James understand all that's at stake here._

 

_-J._

 

As if on cue, the two consultants burst into his living room. "This is technically a crime scene," Watson says, still finishing up the email, "But I suppose it's been about half a day, the Yard's already cleared out and looking for suspects." 

"Now's not the time for guilt-tripping, Johnny-boy." Moriarty gestures to John's hand, "Got something for us?"

"Just an email," the doctor snaps, handing James his phone, "Probably nothing you don't already know." 

Upon reading it, Sherlock's guts twist into overhand knots, "John, I'm sorry… I didn't think they'd try to get to me through _you_ …" 

"It worked pretty well before," John gives a humorless laugh, "'Cept I thought Magnussen was the only one who knew." 

"It might not be entirely unrelated," Moriarty muses, returning the phone, "Not much else to do but show up at the appointed time…" 

"I'm going with you." Watson counters, "Whether you want me to or not."

"Fine." Jim could relate to the pain of losing his loved ones, "But I better not hear a peep of blame out of you."

"That depends… what do you have?"

" _Have_?"

"Whatever this person wants… it's something you've got. The email says you're going to have an exchange, meaning _you_ have it. What did you steal?"

Moriarty glares, "A great many things, Dr. Watson. But none of it matters in this instance."

"And why not?"

"Because…" Jim's voice crawls slowly, "They want something far more precious than the lost Van Gogh paintings." 

"You have the lost — ?" John begins indignantly, but re-focuses at Jim's knife-like stare, "I thought the universal access code was fake?"

"It is." James rolls his eyes, "Obviously, that isn't what they're after."

"Then what _is_ it?"

"That would be _my_ business, wouldn't it? Besides, your tiny brain probably couldn't comprehend the magnitude of such a — " 

"I'm going to call Lestrade." Sherlock says, breaking the tension, hoping to cut Jim off before he said something _too_ rude, "See if he's turned up anything useful."

"Doubt it." John says with contempt, no longer glaring at James, "Whoever it is took great pains to avoid leaving evidence."

 

**[2.5 hours later]**

 

On the car ride there, James scribbles a string of numbers on a piece of paper. What they are, Sherlock can't quite see — but he isn't paying much attention anyway. 

 


	3. Getting What We Want

"11:59…" Sherlock's eyes are fixed on his mobile screen, "Our villain today is very punctual, wouldn't you say so?"

"Oh Sherlock," James is very still, but the air of playfulness is still there, "Not everyone is as eager to jump your bones as I was."

"Would you say this was a better or worse invitation?" 

"I'd say much worse… at least _I_ sent you puzzles."

"You stole John!"

" _Borrowed_." James stresses, "You brought me a _gift_ , not ransom."

"I was intrigued."

"And yet you never called…"

"Girls, can you stop flirting? This is serious." John rolls his eyes, but still has to suppress a laugh. 

"Sorry, Johnny." Jim sees the obvious stutter of Watson's body, "Just trying to pass the time."

"Midnight." Sherlock calls out, "Show yourself."

The longest thirty seconds to date drag out. Then, a light, breezy response echos through the pool. 

"I'm disappointed, Sherl," it's a woman's voice, wafting into the room. Somehow, it sounded vaguely familiar to the whole party, "I would've expected you, of all people, to guess." An irish accent. 

"Janine." The name escaped Sherlock's lips in a hushed cry. 

"There we go." Janine hopped out from the door to the locker rooms across the pool, "Better late than never."

She was far different than she had been more than a year ago — more serious now. _Obviously she's upgraded from being a PA_ … Sherlock thought, taking in her very formal threads: tightly fit suit jacket over a ruffly blouse, a sleek skirt that was still distinctly playful with iris patterns. Her hair was pinned up, taught against her head. Not a hair out of place. A small purse rested under her arm. 

"You!" Confusion overtook Moriarty's features, _from the hospital? With the papers? Sherlock's supposed "girlfriend…" Here I thought she was a_ normal _…_

"Janine — what is this?!" Watson shouted, unable to put together his wife's mild-mannered best friend was behind all of this, _Is_ everyone _in my life a psychopath?!?_

"I thought I was very clear in my emails." Janine mimicked their flabbergasted emotions, "This is a hostage situation." 

"Why? Was this all to hurt me? Some petty notion of revenge?" Sherlock spat, trying to figure out her angle.

"Oh, poor Sherl, can't handle that something can't _possibly_ be about you, now can you?" 

"It's just hard to believe, seeing as you said in the emails that it was about getting to me."

"This wasn't _about_ hurting _you_ , Sherl, but it's neat that it worked out that way." 

"Why did it?" 

"It's a bit daft to try and pretend you're _not_ Jim's major weakness when I _know_ about the boy's parentage." 

"How?" John interjected, " _I_ didn't even bloody know until Sherlock told me, and we used to _live_ together!"

"I can't believe I even need to clarify…" she rolled her eyes, "Birth and marriage records, you idiots! I would generally refrain from revealing my sources, but these are just painfully obvious." She pulled the aforementioned documents out of her purse.

"How did —" Sherlock took a step back in surprise.

"Don't worry, they're just copies," she tutted, "As for _how_ … well, they're somewhat public, if you know where to look."

"Mycroft —"

"Is infallible, no doubt. Others in his department, however, are… malleable."

"What does hurting me get you?" Sherlock fumed.

She took a step forward, eyes focused on Moriarty, "Jim."

"That's far enough." Jim snapped his fingers, a laser sight locked on her forehead.

"Oh, yes, very good: _threats_. _That's_ going to help your little one." She rolled her eyes, completely unfazed, but lifting her arms up in a surrendering position anyway. 

"You'd be surprised what people do when their lives are on the line."

"And I know mine isn't," she shrugged, "You love your son. Or at least, spent a lot of money making him. You wouldn't risk his life by killing me." Stepping forward, she continued, "Magnussen, while a disgusting and brilliant man, had one major problem: his leverage was all _theoretical_. I've fixed that by directly controlling whether or not what you love dies horribly." She lowered her hands back to her sides, now within arms reach of the trio, "Please don't make me do something we'll all regret." 

"Moriarty…" John said, hesitantly speaking to the criminal, "I know you can usually get everything you want by shining a laser pointer at it, but there's too much on the line for _this._ "

A violent beast hid behind James' cool exterior, waiting for any moment to get at the woman standing before him. But at Watson's admonition, his resolve faltered. 

"Do you mind?" Janine asked, gesturing toward the red dot. Jim snapped again and it disappeared, "Not at all." 

"You still haven't answered… _why_? What do you want with Jim?" Sherlock asked, brain trying to find any rational explanation to _not_ blame himself. 

Thankfully, her motives had very little to do with him, "You're a right genius, aren't you? Thought you would've guessed by now, but if it wasn't already clear: I'm starting my own business."

"Your magazine stipend wasn't enough?"

"Oh, no, it's definitely _enough_. It's plenty, actually. This is for _more_."

"You never struck me as the _evil_ type." Jim said, more interested than he should've been, "Just deceptively opportunistic. What brought _this_ on?"

"Who says this isn't about opportunity?" She chuckled before taking on a dark demeanor, "I was Magnussen's PA for three years. The first year was _unbearable_ , but on the second, I realized what his _real_ business was, and made it my goal to usurp this power for myself."

"But then you discovered his information was all in his head." Sherlock chimed in, flinching out of his mind palace at the reminder of his crime.

"Yes, well, that was a bit of a let-down." Her face tightened as she focused on James, "But it turns out, there _is_ a physical compilation of information like that _somewhere_."

A sharp intake of breath from his partner told Sherlock that Jim knew what she was talking about. And controlled it, "Jim?"

"A long time ago I came into a compendium of interesting facts and sensitive information…" He muttered, "It's grown over time. I don't use it for blackmail, of course… just for insurance that people will behave as I need them to." 

"Yes. Thankfully, I own the man that owns _that_. And if you'd be so kind as to give it up, I'll leave your precious families alone." 

Casting a sideways glance at James, Sherlock realized how this would end. He sucked in a breath, hoping it would work as James rummaged through his inside coat pocket. 

"Coordinates." Jim's voice was icy, as he pulled out an envelope, "They're kept in a safe place outside the country." 

"Good boy, glad we could play nicely." Janine outstretched her arm, Moriarty placing it gingerly in her hand, "Now return them."

She waved her free hand as she tucked the envelope into her bag, "They will be back at their respective residences after I have gone in to investigate and confirmed payment."

"You will return them _now_." John snarled, unable to contain himself.

"John," Janine scolded, giving what she perceived to be a comforting smile, "It's okay. Your family is as safe as theirs." Really, the smile came across as sadistic.

"And then there's the other one that Sherl doesn't know about…" Janine cast Moriarty a mischievous look, "Would you like me to tell him?" 

"I imagine I will at some point." Jim said deadpan, the fire in his heart extinguished, replaced with a calm, slow-moving poison. Sherlock considered prying, but he didn't want to show the woman that she had any power over their interactions.

Janine wrote this sudden change off to mean her victory, "If all goes well, I won't be in touch. Tah." She blew Sherlock a kiss, "It's been nice seeing you again." 

As soon as they heard the outside door shut, James checked his watch, "Alright, we have six hours before she finds out I've sent her after the wrong vault." 


	4. Sometimes Guilt Feels Good

"What vault _did_ you send her after?" John was nearly in tears as they ran back to the consultants' house. 

"Nothing _important_ , Johnny-Boy, that's the _point._ "

"Why didn't you just _give_ her the information she wanted?!" 

"Because it's _dangerous_. I thought _you_ of all people wouldn't want something that valuable in hands like _hers_. She would actually use that stuff for _evil_."

"So do you!"

"John!" Sherlock snapped, "I'm sure even if we _did_ give her what she was after, she wouldn't give up hounding us — we're too valuable of a resource." 

"Oh, so what, we're just going to _kill_ her? Like Magnussen?" 

Abruptly, Sherlock halted. It took a moment for John and James to realize, but James kept running, unwilling to get into whatever fight was about to start when time was ticking. 

"If I _have_ to." The detective said firmly once John had gotten close enough to hear. 

"Sherlock, you can't just —"

"I _can_. I don't take pleasure in it, but I _can_. Mycroft won't bail me out again, but now I have Jim, who has extensive knowledge and experience on staying out of trouble."

"No, Sherlock, you don't understand —"

"Ever make that into a t-shirt?"

Taken aback, John had no response. 

"I killed that _filth_ to protect you and Mary. You two are very important to me. As is your daughter. Funny enough, so is William, and I will not hesitate to repeat my performance if necessary." Sherlock was suddenly more angry than annoyed, _I killed for you, Watson. I risked my life, my happiness, for you, and this is how you regard it?_

"Right, well if you hadn't married a _dangerous psychopath_ , none of this would've — !" John shouted. As he reached the end of the sentence, Sherlock struck the side of Watson's face hard enough for the doctor to crumple over.

"If _you_ hadn't married a _dangerous psychopath,_ I wouldn't have gotten shot in the stomach, nearly died, or had to kill Magnussen in the first place." 

"You said she —"

"I lied for your benefit. For your child's. For Mary's."

"Sherlock —"

"She didn't need to shoot me in the _abdomen_ , she _wasn't_ merely trying to incapacitate me. If that were the case, she could've gotten one of my limbs, and used the stun time to knock me out. No, she wanted me _dead_."

"But you said she was the one to call the ambulance."

"No." Sherlock's eyes burn with ferocity, "I didn't want to admit it, because it means that swine saved my life, but that was Magnussen. Convinced Mary would shoot him, he was calling for himself. Lucky accident." 

Reading the fury in his best friend's eyes, John had little more to say, "You never say anything unless… unless you _know_ it to be true."

"I still think you should forgive her, even if I haven't."

"I know." John nodded once, "What can I do to help?" 

"Call my brother." Sherlock says gravely, "He isn't allowed to help directly, but surely he can at least point me in the right direction." 

"Alright. I'm going to head home. I'll keep you updated."

"Thank you."

"I'm trusting you to get them home safely."

"And I'm trusting you to make sure my brother doesn't take matters into his own hands." 

The two men nod and go their separate ways. 

Taking a cab the rest of the way home, Sherlock walks in to find Jim in one of the armchairs, tenting his hands, staring at the fireplace, "I know where to go. And who's running this stupid scheme." He says gruffly, clearly lost in thought.

"Shall we head out then?" Sherlock asks, not bothering to remove his coat. _Perhaps a particularly potent memory? This looks almost like guilt…_

"I'm going to request you stay here." Jim replies in the same voice, not moving at all. Not even to breathe. 

"Jim, if this is about protecting me —"

"It's only _part_ of it, dear."

"Part of what?" 

James sighed, craning his neck to look at him, the tired lines on his face never more prominent than now. _He must have skipped his product today,_ Sherlock thought.

"This is my problem. I _caused_ this. If I had been more careful…"

"We _both_ wanted to stay in London. We _both_ wanted to keep our names. _We_ knew the risks, and _we_ took them anyway."

"And I _still_ want all of that. But if I hadn't been… Look, this is about saving William, but it's also about keeping _you_ out of harm's way."

"Need I remind you, I have been in dangerous situations before. With _your_ people."

"Yes, but these aren't my people. To other criminals, you are the end of the line. Getting caught, going to jail. They see _me_ and they're afraid, but also, if they're smart, they see me as a potential employer, or spot of salvation." 

Sherlock bit his lip, unable to think of a rebuttal. Instead, he walks over and kneels in front of James, placing a hand on his thigh, "I don't blame you for any of this."

"Thanks, doll." But his tone is unengaged. _Clearly, he blames himself._

"And you know where he's being kept?"

"Positive."

"Who is it? I thought this was Janine?"

"It is. But her second-in-command used to work for me."

"Do I know him?"

"No reason why you would. He wasn't involved in any of _our_ cases…" 

Unwilling to dig any farther, Sherlock lets it go, "I will let you do what you need to do. But please… tell me what's happened. When you're ready."

Moriarty places a hand on Sherlock's, "Thank you." He stands, pulling Sherlock to his feet, lightly kissing him, "I will be back shortly." 

Jim leaves on foot. Sherlock watches him for a few minutes, realizes where he's headed, but had already promised to leave it to his husband. 

Then he receives a text. 

 

_Sussex Downs is lovely this time of year, wouldn't you agree? -MH_

 

 _Seems Watson came through._ Shocked that he hadn't thought of it sooner, Sherlock decides against his better judgement to go after James — _if William is where he thinks, there will be no harm. But if he's where_ Mycroft _thinks_ … 

He follows, but quite a ways back as to prevent James from being alerted to his presence. Not quite sure why he's _hiding_ his presence, Sherlock only vaguely tells himself he wants to see how Jim works. _In_ _person_.

When they finally arrive at the destination, it's an old warehouse a few blocks from Magnussen's old office.

 


	5. A Genius Criminal Has Secrets, Too

Sherlock waited in the shadows, just beyond his husband's notice, curiosity about Jim's next move outweighing his concern for his child, _That might be a bad thing…_ But he pushed that thought away, adamant in his resolve to observe the criminal mastermind that evaded capture these many years. 

Jim fumbled with the handles to the large door, which had been bound together by thick chain, sealed in place with four thick padlocks. He growled his bemused laughter — picking locks was one of the first skills he ever learned on his way to the top. Breaking through with incredible haste, the criminal slid forward and was like smoke through the cracks — no sound, no disturbance. When he felt it was safe, Sherlock scurried forward, plastering his ear against the wall. 

There was a long silence as James scoped out the room, calculating the best course of attack.

The moment Sherlock heard a loud _crack_ , he just _had_ to look. He peeked his face around the door just in time to see two bodies hit the floor. After another second of processing, he could see they were two large thugs, dressed in rented security guard uniforms. _Jim must've beaten them with speed and cunning…_ but as he thought that, two more guards appeared, brandishing knives. 

It was then that Sherlock could finally see _Moriarty_ : in a flash, Jim was on them. The guard on the left's knife was stuck into the stomach of one on the right. James proceeded to choke the temporarily shocked left guard out. He fished a key out of one of the body's pockets.

Sherlock stayed glued to his spot until he heard the next door open, Jim's feather-touch footsteps exiting the scene. 

Swiftly tiptoeing, Sherlock managed to get to the other side of the warehouse without a trace of his existence. It was odd, the room had no smell, the air still and bottled, like the entire warehouse was a contained quarantine of misery. Leaning against the door, behind a large crate, he heard two male voices rumbling.

"Knew you'd figure it was me." The voice is lower than Jim's. 

"Then why do it? Seems daft of you to commit a crime you'd get _caught_ for."

"I said you'd _figure_ it, not that you'd ever _get_ to me."

"I find it _offensive_ , that after all this time, you underestimate my prowess."

At this, Sherlock had to sneak a peak: James was standing with a gun pointed squarely between the dark brown eyes of a sturdy-looking man. He was older, probably around the same age as Moran. No scars, a very thin buzz cut that showed mildly graying hair, on his knees, hands behind his head. 

"Maybe. But clearly we're both guilty of that." The man gave a filthy smirk as Moriarty cocked the pistol.

"I'll make this simple: I'm looking for my son. You know where he is."

"What does it matter? You're going to kill me anyway."

"Yes." Jim licked his lips, "Yes, I will. And I'll enjoy it. But your answer is the difference between a bullet in your temple right _now_ , or getting the gun bloodied on your jaw, knocking your cowardly arse out, dragging you to the car, and having Moran break every bone in your extremities over the next twelve days."

"Ah, Moran. so you're still seeing him, then?"

"Colleagues." Moriarty said forcefully.

"Is that right? Tell me, exactly when did you two finally break it off? Cause that's more than I ever got."

"You are trying my patience, Devon. Where is William?"

_So this man's name is Devon… and he was also involved with Jim?_ As unpleasant as it is to hear about your lover's exes, Sherlock was stunned to hear Moriarty and Moran were ever a thing. Of course, Sherlock knew James was far more experienced than he, he had just never given too much thought to it. 

"Was it before those two years you were a no-show?"

Sherlock's breath stuck in his esophagus, _That recent?_ Suddenly, a lot of his conviction is shaken, legs wobbling.

" _Devon_."

"Or maybe it was after? During? At some point, did the long distance get to be too much?"

"Pining after me that long?"

"Trying to get over me that desperately?"

"That's awfully bold of you, Devon. And quite stupid, to assume that you ever meant anything to me. But why am I even surprised? I didn't _use_ you for your _intelligence_."

"That right? You kept coming back for something."

"Bored now." Jim huffs, "You have ten seconds."

"Before what? You kill me, or torture me, your kid is toast."

"We'll see about that. Ten."

"Why did you leave me for Moran?"

"I like scars. And a man who can carry out a decent murder. Nine." 

"Yet you kicked his ass to the curb all the same. Did you find a _better_ one, then?"

"Is this really how you want to spend your last few seconds? Eight."

"No other regrets."

"Turns out, there is someone I truly love. Seven."

"And the kid?"

"He's got two fathers. We love him and each other. Simple enough. Six."

"He won't _have_ much. Very soon."

Moriarty sighs, lowering the gun and pulling the trigger. Devon groaned deeply in pain, clutching his now profusely bleeding knee, "Five."

"This person you ' _love_...' He know about our one-nighter?"

"I don't see why he would. We were separated at the time." He re-positioned the barrel of the gun against Gaspar's temple, "Four."

"Oh James. Always hiding things. For all your lies, ever worry you'll end up alone?"

"The thought never crossed my mind. Three." Jim's voice conveyed the deadliest of venoms.

"Perhaps it should. Whomever it is... They must be cracked as you to think you could ever do something so mundane as _love_." The widening of Jim's eyes told Devon everything he needed to know, "Oh that's _good_. He _is_ , because he's your _enemy_. That Sherlock gent, right?"

"Two."

"Ha. Knew it. You were always too twisted to be _happy_. You needed it to be someone on the other side. Opposition. You needed to seduce the _one_ person who wasn't already prostrate at your feet."

"One. Last chance: where is my son?"

"Now that he's yours... _When_ will you grow tired of him, James?"

"Zero." The cold metal collided with the side of Devon's face, probably with more force than was strictly necessary. James felt his cheekbone fracture, maybe threw his jaw out, _Hope he can still scream._

As his limp body crumpled, Moriarty texted for Sebastian. 

 

_Extraction. Now. -JM_

 

Hearing the creak of the first door open, Sherlock froze in place, hoping he wasn't visible from the other side. Still able to see between the gaps in the wooden panels of the box, he watched as Sebastian Moran glided into the adjacent room.

Seconds later, Gaspar's bloody form was gathered, "Make sure it hurts." He hears James call out casually as Moran and the body move past him.

"Alright. How much of that did you hear?" Jim asks aloud, wiping some of the blood off of his face. When there's no response, he calls again, "I know you're there, Sherlock. I just don't know for how long." 

"Right after you left." Sherlock whispered, "I got a text from Mycroft." 

"Can you come in here? I can barely hear you, and I don't much fancy having this conversation through a _wall_." 

Somehow finding the strength to stand, the detective ambled in. Jim was covered in blood, none of it his own. "Didn't know there was a dress code." Sherlock said humorlessly, "I would've worn red, too."

"Don't act like you're disgusted, my love." 

"I'm not. Just… perturbed." 

"About my appearance, what I did, or the conversation you just heard? 

"Just the latter, really." 

"One of the enumerable benefits of choosing a sociopath as my mate… doesn't care about the crimes, just my personal misgivings." Jim bit the inside of his cheek, "As much as this is important to me, love, this really isn't the time or place for our marital issues."

The detective nods once, "Two hours left before Janine finds the false vault."

"What did the Iceman say?"

"We should head to her cottage in Sussex Downs." 

"Then we need to go. Now."

"Travel time will eat up most of what we've got left." Sherlock said, deadpan, looking incredibly unmotivated.

"Sherlock." Jim texted for the car, "It's a long drive. We can talk then, okay? But right now we need to be proactive." 

Nodding, the detective followed Moriarty out to the idling vehicle, his feet feeling oddly light as his heart pounded into his chest, _What did I sign up for?_

It's insane, because at the heart of it all, Sherlock _knew_ who he'd married. He knew to expect some lies, as Sherlock himself was likely to tell every now and then. He knew to expect his moral stances to be questioned at all hours of the day, since both of them were murders. He had prepared himself for the near-inevitability of infidelity, and seemed to have made peace with it. He could forgive Jim.

But _knowing_ these things still didn't ease the _reality_ of it all as they were upon him. 


	6. Marital Difficulties Aren't the Main Concern Right Now... Or Maybe They're All We Have

Once Sherlock had regurgitated the exact address to the driver, there was a five minute pause after the glass partition had been raised. Jim pulled out a towel from somewhere, pouring some water from a bottle on it, cleansing the blood from his hands. Finally, as he began wiping down his face, he spoke, "It was a long time ago."

Sherlock was looking out the window, eyes fixated on some abstract point on the horizon, "How long?"

"I was 26, and you were doing your first stint in rehab."

"Keeping an eye on me?"

"Not then. Not anymore." James said firmly, "That was the moment I gave up on you."

"How long were you two an item?" 

"Three years."

"That's a long time to not be _emotionally_ intimate."

Moriarty scoffed, "You'd be surprised. I'm quite talented at keeping people at arm's length when I want to." In retaliation, Sherlock gave a scoff of his own. 

"Oh, you don't believe me? How's this: the _second_ I met Sebastian, I broke it off with Devon. I let him keep his job as my second-in-command, but clearly he couldn't have meant too much."

Hurt, Sherlock turned his head, not letting it show, _And what happens if you meet someone better than me?_ "Did you love him? Either of them?"

"You misunderstand, Sherlock," Jim had read the real meaning behind his beloved's words, extending a roughly cleaned hand, cupping the sleuth's jaw and forcing their eyes to meet, "The only person I've ever been in a _real_ relationship with is _you_."

"But did you?"

"No. Not even close."

"Did you break up with Moran for me?"

"For us to 'break up,' we'd have had to have been in a relationship in the first place."

"You know what I meant."

"We were living together for a few years. Stopped sleeping together a little before the _fall_ … Then I took off to follow you."

"For two years. Then you came back."

"We didn't resume our sexual activities after that, if that's what you're asking. Though he continues to be one of the best snipers I've ever encountered." Jim's hand eases up on his face.

"And Devon?" Sherlock breaks away, going back to the window.

"What about him?"

"He said you… ' _hooked up_ ' again. While we were separated." 

"Yes."

"Well?"

"'Well' what?"

"You didn't think I was entitled to know about that?"

"Was I supposed to be a _monk_ while you took your sweet time summoning up the balls to finally talk to me?"

"No, but you should've told me."

"Perhaps. But I decided not to tell you because I was afraid you'd react the way you _are_ reacting." 

"And why _shouldn't_ I?"

"Because it meant _literally_ _nothing_."

"What exactly happened?" 

" _You_ were being _stupid_." Jim singsonged.

The words weren't meant to be biting, but the sting is unlike anything Sherlock had ever known, next to finding out their son had been taken, "I know." The admission isn't difficult; he's understood this painfully clear fact since they'd left in Bucharest. 

"I was throwing a party." Jim said tenderly, feeling slight guilt over the hurt in the detective's words, "I had just fulfilled a rather complex case… about you." Sherlock cast him a furtive sideways glance, _Go on._

"I orchestrated getting the doctor thrown in the bonfire. I sent those texts to Mary's phone. I couldn't text you directly, lest I continue the habit."

" _Why_?"

"Magnussen wanted your pressure point. I told him your most easily exploited weakness was your doctor pet. The problem was that you two were in a tiff, so the old codger wouldn't believe me."

"So you put John at risk."

"Fire exposes our priorities." He shrugged, "Repairing your relationship, and proving that you'd do _anything_ for him." 

"And you didn't see fit to tell me this _either_?"

"Sherlock… I thought you knew." _You know me so well, yet you didn't see this? A plan quite obviously mine? Were you that blinded by love? Did you turn a blind eye, hoping I wouldn't ever harm your friend? You know better. Or at least, you should…_

"I'd have been far less apt to text you right after if I had known it was _your insipid plan._ I was also under the impression that your criminal network had significantly decreased in volume. I saw to that _personally_." Sherlock's tone is combative, but James doesn't bite. 

"You knew I was still working quite regularly." He says evenly, wanting to ask, _Do you really not know me as well as I'd hoped?_

"I thought I had been more of a hindrance… I did spend _two_ years on it."

"You did pretty well. Around 80% of my original frontmen were eliminated during your little campaign." _I guess I should've expected to be disappointed…_

"And you expect me to believe you're running on 20%?"

"No. I made _new_ contacts just as easily. That's the thing about crime, Sherlock: it _evolves_." 

There's a pause as the detective realizes how blind he's been, _James clearly isn't any worse off than he was when he was a criminal king almost five years ago…_ His thoughts wander, eventually finding his way back to something that had bothered him.

"I refuse to apologize for _my job_ , Sherlock." Jim says, hazarding a guess as to what was going through his beloved's mind. Truly, the criminal mastermind feels no remorse over this subject. But that wasn't the problem.

"No… it's… is that why you didn't text me back that evening?" Sherlock is timid, connecting dots he'd hoped had no relation, "Busy shagging _Devon_?"

Jim doesn't flinch, "That came a bit later, but he was already chatting me up, yes."

"Never mind. We will get back to that, I'd like to know everything I should be upset about upfront. Continue with your other indiscretion." 

"Drunk. Missing you. Missing you _terribly…_ And also angry. Upset. Wishing you'd stop being a complete _moron_ who _refused_ to admit his feelings. Being so close to you, unable to reach out. But I couldn't force it on you, nor did I —"

" _Devon_."

"Right, sorry. There isn't much else to say. I was drunk, proud of myself, wanting connection… Devon never stopped wanting to get back ' _together_ ,' kept telling me how pretty I was, how _he'd_ tell me he loved me… so I suggested we go back to one of my apartments."

"No trouble getting over _me_ , apparently."

" _Sherlock_." James whispered, a dangerous inflection in his voice, struggling to contain his anger. 

He had a very strong urge to slap the detective, but knew that'd only worsen the situation. Breathing slowly, he let a beat pass before speaking again, "I fired him the next morning. Told him if I ever saw him again, he'd have a hole in his chest." 

"Not worth a second go?"

"Not after I'd had the real thing. He knew I didn't want him anymore, he took advantage anyway." He reached out for the detective's hand, but found it pulling back.

"How can I believe that? There's so much you conveniently neglected to tell me."

"I married _you_." His face was stone, but his words were shed by a tortured soul.

"You didn't want to."

"Of course I did." James swallowed, his words faint, "I was just hesitant to admit what you are to me."

"And that is?"

"Don't you know?"

"I'd like to hear you say it."

"Everything." 

"Are you _sure_ about that?"

"I pursued you, my dearest. I will continue to do so." 

Finally, Sherlock's fingers slithered between James', "As will I."

"Are we okay?"

"No." Sherlock's eyes have turned soft, yet reserved, "I'll work on getting there." 

Jim nodded once, focusing on the warmth of Sherlock's hand, the faint pulse a soothing rhythm. 

"Something is bothering you." Sherlock stated, implicitly demanding an answer. 

At this moment, Jim is conflicted: every fiber of his being resists being transparent. Even more so, resists _telling_ a soul. _Then again, I just went on a sharing tirade about my stupid ex…_ Until now, he'd considered it okay if Sherlock knew his every thought and action because it was _Sherlock_ and Sherlock just _knew_ these things. But he didn't. Or at least, he seemed not to, "It's been nearly five years. Do you still not see all that I am?"

Silence. Sherlock ponders the question, and all it implies, "I do, Jim." Breathing in for a moment, he weighs whether or not he'd like to go into a tirade. He decides it's worth it.

"I see all that you are. Amazing, evil, insane, terrifying, the enigma… all of it. But what draws me to you is that you are a puzzle _unsolved_. I can't predict your every move, your every thought. Not like the other peons in the world, so blind and dazed I'm astounded that they can walk in a straight line. You are me, and I am you; I can look at myself, and see what I'd do to make an educated guess about your odious plans. But in the end, even after five years, you can _still_ surprise me. And that is what's special about you.

"So please don't misunderstand. My lack of clairvoyance when it comes to you isn't an insult. It's a _challenge_ : a constant reminder to myself to keep my eyes and ears alert when it comes to all things _James Moriarty_. My brain never ceases thoughts of my most beloved, dashing, brilliant, occasionally frustrating life partner."

" _Husband_." Moriarty corrects. 

"Husband." Sherlock concedes. They smile at each other coyly. Then after a moment, he allows the seriousness to bubble up again, "Is this why you think it's your fault?"

"Yes," James looks away sheepishly, "If I hadn't slept with him that night… If I hadn't fired him… If I'd have just _killed_ him when I had the chance…"

"Janine was already planning on kidnapping William. It was just a matter of time."

"I know. It's irrational, but it's hard to shake the feeling."

Sherlock squeezes his hand, "I understand."

"Do you still love me?" There's a hint of fear in the smaller man's words — as if he could actually believe the detective had stopped loving him.

"Don't be stupid, James."

The spend the rest of the ride in silence, both refocused on retrieving their offspring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long car rides... perfect for a little exposition ;) But don't worry my darling readers, this was only a brief breather. They aren't out of the woods yet...


	7. In Which Jim Reminds Sherlock of Who He Is

Arriving at Janine's cottage, Moriarty wastes no time with a real plan, "You might want to wait out here, darling." He hums sweetly, checking that his hidden pistol was loaded. 

"Why?" Sherlock asks, wishing he had pick pocketed John's gun when he had the chance.

"There are people in there. I doubt they're friendly."

"So there's going to be a confrontation, and you want me to stay out of it?"

"Nonsense! Don't be vulgar. I'm merely going to go _talk_ to them." 

"Then there's no reason why I shouldn't be allowed in, hmm?

"Sherlock, I told you before — "

"What, are there _more_ secrets waiting in there?" That shut Jim up. "If so, I don't think this is the time to be hiding things. I have been trained _extensively_ in self-defense, and you'd be remiss to go in completely outnumbered."

"Fine, fine. We _don't_ have time for this. Just don't get yourself shot again." Jim grumbles, "I sort of like you _alive_."

"I'll _struggle_ to keep that in mind."

Grinning at each other one last time, the make a beeline for the door. 

Unlike the scuffle at the warehouse, James doesn't bother with being quiet and sneaky. Kicking in the door, there are four men waiting in the living room. Obviously, they hadn't been expecting the intrusion, as Sherlock quickly noticed all of their firearms were on a table a few feet away from where they were playing cards. 

"Sorry to barge in like this, but I heard your boss is out of town." Jim drones, "I've got a message for her, who'd like to pass it on?"

The next events happened at superhuman speed: the men leapt in different directions, two going for the firearms, two trying to subdue the consultants. The one going after Sherlock was easily brought down — the detective going straight for the neck, then buckling his knees.

There was a subdued _bang_ as Moriarty shot the man coming after him, the silencer doing its job well. Another strike as he got the wrist of one of the ones going after the rifles, "I think you'll do nicely, what do you think?" Yet another shot in the man's thigh put him down for good. 

However, in the split second's distraction the remaining uninjured man had secured his weapon. He had now leapt in front of Sherlock, gun point-blank in his face, about to pull the trigger. There was no time to act. 

For an instant, the detective considers what death will be like, and musters a small tear for what William's life will be like without him. He can find no comfort, as death would truly be the _end_. He hears a shot go off. 

But the gun is quickly lowered as the man before him coughs blood into his face, and crumples over in pain, a fresh bullet hole on his lower back. "No one." He hears James' low growl, "Kills Sherlock. But _me_." 

The detective finds Moriarty's gaze, gun lowered at his side, "Are you okay, love?" Despite  the animalistic rage that had been present on Jim's face just moments ago, the harshness had dissolved, now manifesting in doting endearment. Information doesn't process in Sherlock's brain for what seems like hours, _He just saved my life again… where is William? Did he save his life as well? Yes. Yes he did._

"Consulting criminal." He lets out in a hushed whisper. 

"The only one in the world, lovely." His thumb brushed away a droplet of blood running down Sherlock's cheek.

"I thought you didn't like getting your hands dirty?" The detective nodded toward James' now blood-soaked fingers, a few cuts of his own intermittently dispersed across the taut flesh. 

Jim shrugged, "I also don't like my kid getting stolen." 

"Fair enough."

Turning around, Jim cuts across the floor, kneeling beside the heavily bleeding man, "My message is simple: _you're next_." Sherlock catches a peek at his lover's face: cold, ruthless, calculating, "But she shouldn't hear it for a few hours, so…" There's a _crack_ as the criminal punches the man unconscious. 

All of the enmity is gone by the time he looks back at Sherlock. 

"Come on, I hear him crying." James observes, extending a hand to his husband. 

It was a quiet cry, almost inaudible from the ground floor, but sure enough, it was a baby. They walk arm-in-arm up the stairs, certain they had dispensed of the only security detail. Breaking the lock to Janine's bedroom, where the wailing was the loudest, they were stunned to see the source of the noise: a mobile phone, playing a recording.

Sherlock, in shock and curiosity, took a moment to absorb the new surroundings: decently large room, the king-sized bed the clear focal point, with royal purple blankets and beaded throw pillows. Full-length mirrors peppering the walls. Flowers, both real and fake, the room faintly sweet in aroma. A door on the left that surely led to a walk-in closet, another on the right that led to a small bathroom. _She's certainly done well for herself… but she isn't home often._ Things were too crisp, new. _Either she bought all of this just for our benefit, or she's become a frequent traveler… Like Jim, perhaps? But less established. Perhaps someday, if we don't throw her in a river, she'd be an interesting adversary… but I doubt she'll live to see tomorrow._

"Sherlock." Jim hisses, eyes fixed on the glowing screen, "Look under it." 

Sherlock's heart drops. Nestled under the phone is a note in Janine's beautiful flourish:

 

_Hello boys,_

 

_Good show, but sorry, I'm not that daft. You'll get him back when I've verified the vault's location, and not a moment sooner. I should congratulate you on going to find him in the most obvious place — my house, really?_

 

_Hope at least some of my guards escaped with their lives… pity, finding good help is such a chore. I'm sure you'd know, Jim._

 

_Tah,_

 

_Janine_

 

And for the first time in many years, Moriarty was dumbstruck on what to do next. 

"Jim…" Sherlock, however, had an idea. But not one he particularly enjoyed thinking about, "Do you think Moran's killed Devon yet?"


	8. A Taste of Defeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my dear readers <3 Thank you for the recent upsurge in interest, it really helped me get back to this. I'm so sorry for the huge delay. Like... half a year of delay. No real excuse for so long, but I just got such a block on *this* chapter in particular... exposition, but I do have the rest of the fic planned.

"Oh _no_." Jim hissed as they got into the car, "I am _not_ doing a prisoner exchange." Sherlock felt it best not to argue. 

The ride home had been very tense. Even if it _was_ up for discussion, after the shock they'd suffered, neither was up for superfluous debate. There was a silent agreement that they would think over other options, but as the ninety-minute travel drew to a close, one look at each other and they _knew_ it was their best shot.

"The answer is still no." Jim growled, getting out of the car. 

Or, at least, Sherlock thought they were on the same page, finally losing his temper in a moment of pure exasperation, "Oh come _off_ it, Jim." 

" _Excuse_ _me_ , honey?" The criminal's voice had gone low and sugary. Always a bad sign.

"Well, what _choice_ do we have?" Sherlock snapped, wandering into the foyer, taking off his coat, tossing it carelessly on the ground, "Either you offer _him_ , or the _real_ location of the information."

Jim shot him a nasty look, flickering a moment to the jacket on the ground. Pet peeve of his, but… well. It was easy to tell when the criminal had seen the merit in his reasoning, "Fine. I will _call_ her and make the _offer_." _But I make no promises she’ll accept_. 

"Try and make it seem less _threatening_ , won't you?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes, mouthing, "That's rather the _point_." Adding silent emphasis with his face. 

There was a moment of static before the ringing stopped, a clear sign the call as being recorded, " _Dear Jim, isn't it a bit late to be calling? Then again, I haven't checked if there's a significant time difference…_ " The rivaling lilt was calm, but an air of anger bubbled underneath. One that reeked of betrayal, that promised backstabbing in the near-future. But this was a delicate situation, and any wrong move would doom the hasty party. So she reigns it in, " _To what do I owe the pleasure?_ "

"The beauty of your personality, of course…" Jim rolled his eyes, his tone detailing every minute expression, "And to congratulate you on your absolutely _lovely_ note. _Painfully_ clever, and coming from me, that's saying something."

" _Ahh_ …" Faint giggles on the other side of the receiver, making Sherlock's blood boil. He couldn't imagine Jim was feeling any better, " _I bet it was absolutely devastating. Did you happen to get a picture of your faces? I thought it was comedy gold._ "

" _Hilarious_." Moriarty was all seriousness again, "You've got exactly _one_ shot at this."

A tiny scoff, " _Aren't you misreading the situation?_ "

"I don't see how."

" _I still have your little boy. He can still be killed._ "

"And I have a whole slew of things you'd like. One of which, Mr. Gaspar, who is currently in my custody, is your 'expert' on me. And if you ever want that kind of access to information back, I'd suggest you play along."

" _I can get other experts, Jim, you can't get another son._ "

"I could, reproductively speaking." But that wasn't the point, seeing as he was quite sentimental over a human being that had only had a few months of purchase on this world. He spoke up before she could make the threat he could practically smell coming, "But… alright, what do you want that _isn't_ my blackmail dossier?" 

" _Well, sweeten the deal somehow, darling, and I won't take one of his precious little fingers._ " 

"You don't actually have him with you."

" _Oh, I don't_?" 

"Other than the fact I can't hear his incessant wailing, the entire country is silently on amber alert, courtesy of the boy's uncle…" Jim mused, sounding almost bored, "It'd be more difficult than it was worth to smuggle him to Norway…" 

" _Well. I have people posted with your son who could take it_ for _me._ "

"As much as I'm convinced they'll be afraid of me after what I did to their compatriots, I suppose I can offer _something_ …" Jim huffed, "Fine. Promise after all this is over that I will never hear from you again, and you may have the Argentinian branch of my web."

" _Nothing a little closer to home?_ "

"No, that's the point. Besides…" He frowned, all business, "It's a strategic placement. You'll want something outside Europe. Somewhere without extradition treaties… Argentina takes such horrible folk, you’ll fit right in.”

Admittedly, Jim had a point. And alluring, for someone into the less-than-legal business. 

However, there was an uncomfortable silence. Until now, Janine had been almost resolutely _talkative._ Disconcertingly so. And now… this was the exact wrong time for this. _That's exactly her aim…_ In a way, Sherlock admired her manipulative nature. In others, he wanted her remains in five different steel barrels.

" _Alright._ " The line finally sprang to life, " _You will meet with my representative tomorrow morning, at a cafe for safety's sake. I will furnish the address closer to the time so you cannot set any funny business up._ "

"Don't trust me, dear?"

" _Not at all_."

"Good policy."

" _Anyways. You will bring your mobile, he will bring the child. You will transfer the necessary information and materials, he will hand the baby over. Is that clear?_ "

"Crystal." Jim replied curtly. _Suspicious_ , Sherlock thought, _Jim doesn't capitulate that easily… then again, this is a unique scenario._

" _Excellent_." She chimed, " _Oh, and one last thing…_ " 

"Make it quick." 

" _Congratulations_."

Whether or not that was snarky, they never found out. Perhaps they were walking into a trap. Equally possible Jim was setting one himself as a fallback. But clearly it was no longer up for debate: the line went dead. 

 


	9. Meanwhile

“What do you _mean_ you _‘forgot?’_ ” John yelled, bringing his fist down on the kitchen counter, rattling the idle mugs, “You- I can’t- _believe_ you two!” He looked between them, Sherlock frowning, leaning against the wall, blank, dead stare at the refrigerator. 

Words hit the detective’s brain, but didn’t process, devoting his mental processing to spontaneously developing x-ray vision. If he could see through the door, he might be able to see the untouched formula bottle meant for his son's return. 

“Oh don’t blame Sherly.” Jim waved an uncaring hand, turning the kettle on, “I was the one on the phone making the deal, he was clocked out for whatever reason…” He cast a sideways glance at him, “Yes, just like that.”

“Yeah, with _worry._ For his _child_.” The doctor growled, “Which, _hello_ , yes, so am I! Not to mention: _double_ that because my _wife_ is also on the bloody line!”

“I can’t imagine this freak-out is any good for your blood pressure, Johnny-boy.” Jim rolled his eyes, “Nor is it actually going to _do_ anything for your family now.”

“Well shouldn’t _you_ do something?!”

“I suppose I could call that horrible woman back, make a second deal…” Jim shrugged, pouring the mugs, “But then I might seem _weak_ , and that won’t help _anyone._ ” He looked up, back at his husband, “Sherlock, honey, could you get the milk?”

No response. Jim sighed heavily, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He wandered over, popping the fridge open and pulling out the carton. Somewhere in the background, Sherlock sharply inhaled, obscured by Watson’s disgruntled huffing. 

Jim quickly fixed up the cups, “Look, Johnny…”

“ _Don’t_.” John hissed, only barely stopping himself from kicking Jim in the shin. He was above that, but only just, “Condescension really isn’t the _appropriate_ response right now.”

The criminal narrowed his eyes, sliding a saucer toward the doctor, “ _John_ , then.” He said softly, “Regardless of how low my opinion is of _you_ , mine of your wife’s abilities are _far_ different.” He takes a slow sip, waiting for the information to sink in.

It was almost as if the entire room had taken a deep breath in, “Oh.” John exhaled, anger dissipating into surprise, alarm, and mild disgust, “She… assassin… perfect shot… worked for you. Right.” 

“Well I wouldn’t say _perfect_.” Jim corrected, “But good at what she did. It was no small loss for me when she ran off.”

It earned him a chuckle. Until the doctor rounded on the hitherto catatonic Sherlock, “ _You_ knew about this. You must’ve.”

Sherlock blinked, pupils raising, focusing on John’s face, “I made _you_ a promise to protect her. I made _her_ a promise to keep her secrets. What she didn’t reveal _herself_ — albeit unknowingly — I deemed irrelevant.” 

“You still could’ve told me her ex-boss was your sadistic _boyfriend-_ ”

“Husband.” Jim’s sharp tone cut off his sentence. Both of them leaned over to look, the shorter man pouting slightly, “And while we’re focusing on me, I’d like it known that I’m not a sadist.”

“Sorry.” John replied reflexively, even if he didn’t mean it. Still, it was poor form to take back an apology, so a tense pause hung in the air.

“Right.” Jim straightened out his jacket, “Anyway. I’m reasonably certain your wife and child are fine. Away from William, probably the safest they could be.”

“ _Away?_ How could you possibly know that?” John barked.

“Because,” Sherlock began, “Jim forgot, and Janine didn’t remind him. Even when we went to her house to find him, the note she left made specific reference to _William_ , not them.”

“Hence, she is hardly interested in them. He’s the prize here, the rest is collateral ” The criminal pointed out, “Besides. Didn’t the email she sent you specifically note they would be released once this was all over?”

“Yeah, that was _before_ you made meat pulp out of her guards.” 

“He has a point.” Sherlock mused, “We ruined the original deal. Probably voided all of it.”

“Well… what are we _supposed_ to do then?” John asked.

“Ah…” Jim puffed out his bottom lip, tapping a spoon against the rim of the cup before the doctor’s phone began ringing, “… think we could call her?”

 

* * *

 

An alias is a fragile thing. Comparable to a lie, when the brain takes on new information to cover up the old, it is stuck in a state of constantly knowing both. In moments of great shock or delirium, it is easy for the mind to retrace old paths, momentarily flipping back to the old.  

Aurora Andaman woke, mildly drugged, face digging into the floor, pajamas doing little to protect her from the seeping cold. Sitting up, her movements were sluggish, body still trying to metabolize whatever had gotten into her system. Eyes flitted around, scanning the area: windows high, minimal moonlight, boxes, concrete, sliding door the size of a wall. Warehouse storage. Certainly wasn’t the first time. She ran a hand over her face, trying to remember the last thing that’d happened. 

However, before her memory got a chance to readjust, she caught the reason she’d been woken in the first place: there was a baby. Crying. The sound resonated, a primal reaction, one of a mother. But she wasn’t a mother, was she? It took a moment to remember, phasing gracelessly through a list of names, the most recent almost escaping her.

Mary Morstan. That’s who she was now. A surge of panic followed the realization, causing her to jump up and find the source. It was near. She breathed as she leaned over, picking up the bundle. 

“Well of course you were crying…” She said softly, rocking the little girl, “You’re so cold…” As her infant — Catherine, she was vaguely remembering —calmed, her mind was freed to think up a plan.

Anyone else in her repertoire would’ve immediately sought a way out — pile boxes up to the window, jump and roll. But that would be impossible without hurting a baby. Second option was to check outside the heavy-looking door, but chances are she was being guarded or somehow monitored. And she didn’t have any weapons. 

That left option three: wait. But for what? John would come for her, of course. Yet… ah, there it was: they’d been babysitting for Sherlock and Jim. Was William here with her? She meandered around the room, poking around anywhere she thought a baby might be stashed. 

After twenty minutes, she concluded it was just her and her own offspring. So the consultant’s child was either fine, or involved. She banked on “involved” since there hadn’t been any threat of an attack like this when it was just her own family. _So that means Sherlock is on the case as well_ … 

In theory, she was pretty safe. There was a balance between her husband and the detective: the detective would go all-out to find a clever way to find them. But John would tread carefully, giving in to whatever ransom demands were made if things became too shady.

However, there was a creeping new variable that she couldn’t ignore: Moriarty’s course of action. A true “x” on an otherwise constant equation. Would he fall into his more reckless habits, or play it safe for his child? Most people had basic restraint, an ability to self-check to make sure they wouldn’t fly off the handle. But Jim took absolutely everything to the extremes.

Meaning whatever payment was required, he had refused. 

_So I can either wait around to die or possibly be saved, or I can think of a better way that guarantees survival._ Games were all about playing the odds, but this wasn’t a game. Not with her child at stake. 

She set the bundle down, needing her arms free for her next venture: checking security. The door inched open, but was mercifully silent. Peeking out, she was perplexed to see the warehouse was completely empty. Well, at least from this pithy angle and terrible lighting — she was nowhere near trusting enough to take things at face value. There was a mild aroma of cigarettes that lingered, but nothing fresh. Had been at least a few hours since anyone had smoked. Either they were elsewhere now, or they didn’t chain. 

Now. It was feasible for her to sneak out and try to get a better look, but that might end with an unpleasant altercation should someone see her first. Yet, like her, even the best assassins weren’t immune to surprise. The building was dead quiet. Most likely had been the entire time she’d been there.

Pushing as hard as she could, Mary managed to get the door open at least two meters. Good enough for her purposes. She picked up an empty wooden crate and threw it out as far as she could. It landed with a satisfying _clunk_ , continuing to send tremors as it skidded across the floor. 

Nothing. Curious. 

Walking out, squaring off bits of the building, she found evidence people were once there. Bootprints, cigarette butts, bullet casings. In another room, she even traced over parts of the ground, evidence of a special blood cleaner Moriarty’s men used. Meaning he’d been here too, but hadn’t known she was around, or he probably would’ve had Moran scoop her up. 

Regardless, it meant they were safe. A little awkward, knowing she’d be walking around in her nightgown, but over a shoot-out, it was a small price to pay. 

Mary returned to the room, resting the child over her shoulder and exited without issue, heading straight back home (once she found out where the devil she actually was).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not happy with how this chapter turned out, but I couldn't honestly spend another week agonizing over it. Hope you guys enjoyed it regardless <3


	10. Distaste

“I don’t feel right about this.” Sherlock squirmed slightly in his seat, the babble of people around him, his partner calm and collected beside, stirring his tea, nibbling at a biscuit. _How is it possible you do? I doubt you do this_ every _day._ It was five minutes before noon, before the exchange. Sitting in a mostly outdoor cafe, sun rays skidding over the dainty umbrella, “It feels too _normal._ ”

“I know, darling.” Jim said, a small _clink_ of his spoon hitting the saucer as he looked up at him with sunglasses-clad eyes, “But acting like you’re nervous is going to tense the entire atmosphere… and lead to stupid and rash decisions.” He placed a hand on Sherlock’s thigh, “There’s a plan, specifically made so the exchange goes smoothly. No one here wants there to be a shoot-out. The Watsons are safe, this is the last piece of the puzzle.”

_Then why did you have me bring a gun?_ Sherlock asked, purely with an annoyed facial expression, knowing they may be monitored.

“Then again…” Jim continued, “Precautions and back-ups are necessary evils.” Then he stiffened, head turning oh-so slightly to the left. Large, surly-looking man in a black suit, average height, brown hair, dark glasses, nondescript as could be. Carrying a cradle.

"William." Sherlock whispered, disguised underneath a sigh of relief, “Wait, what is he- ?!” His voice began picking up, but Jim’s hand on his thigh squeezed in warning. “But…” the man turned, sitting at the table next to them, back against theirs. 

Jim lowered his glasses slightly, giving Sherlock a knowing glance, _This is how it’s done, sweetie._ “Lovely day.” He began the conversation.

“Indeed.” The low, new voice answered, “Now. You know what to do.”

Jim pursed his lips, looking straight ahead. “Right to the point, are we?” Meanwhile, Sherlock was having difficulty not glancing over, powerful senses wanting to deconstruct everything about their new enemy. Some possible description that wasn’t generic “bad-guy.” 

“I was told not to give you time for funny business.” That voice somehow put Sherlock off more than the urge to leap out of his seat and just _take_ his child back. Something ancient, something at the core of his being, passed on for thousands of years, wanting to protect his legacy… 

“How clever my adversary is…” Jim commented wryly, pulling out his mobile, “Then again, if she weren’t, this situation wouldn’t be happening…” He flicked his finger over the screen, pulling up a complex page of code, names and numbers Sherlock couldn’t quite ascribe meaning to — curse his past complacency to let Jim take care of these things. Silently, he made a note to ask Jim about teaching him further computer language, “I’ll need the transfer information.” He said, voice measured.

A cream-colored envelope appeared in Sherlock’s peripheral vision, Jim snatching it quickly. His eyes followed the paper, the information in the familiar scrawl wasn’t for Janine, rather for Magnussen’s old newspaper firm. Shells. All of it. The criminal world was so impersonal, detached…

However, no matter the moral ambiguity, or whatever surely profound thoughts he was about to have, were immediately interrupted by the sound an infant fussing. His breath sharply hitched, hands twitching, wringing together. The hand on his thigh stayed firm, anchoring him, “Alright. Done.” 

The man nodded, “She will text to confirm.” 

It was only three agonizing seconds, but to Sherlock, it may as well have been three _hours,_ listening to the punishing ticks of the man’s watch.

The cradle was set on the ground and nudged over. The hand on Sherlock’s leg squeezed gently, signaling it was okay to take it. With shaking, sweaty palms, the detective brought William up into his lap. He flooded with joy, smirking a moment before he heard a rush of air, something cutting through it at breakneck speed.

“Lovely timing, Moran.” Jim noted to himself, mistakable to any eavesdropper as harsh breathing, “Remind me to give him a raise.”

“ _Christ_.” Sherlock flinched hard as he looked behind him, hands clenching around the plastic of the carrier. The bullet had gone clean through the man’s skull, a slow trickle of blood dripping down the table. 

“I didn’t enjoy that.” Jim said simply, wrinkling his nose as he took the last sip of his tea, “So messy… and we should go before anyone else notices.” 

“No, Jim.” Sherlock hissed, taking a breath and finding himself left with anger brewing in his chest, “ _Explain_ yourself. You said it’d be _simple_.”

He raised an eyebrow, “That wasn’t simple? No muss, no fuss.”

“I thought we agreed to comply.”

“I agreed to _pretend_ to comply…”

Sherlock grumbled, fist clenching — Jim was being evasive, something that he thought they were beyond, “You know how I feel when you have people killed unduly.”

"Oh please, I was never actually going to let her messenger live.” Jim scoffed, “Someone knows we negotiated with her, word gets out I'll actually bend to the wills of people who attack my loved ones.” He shook his head, "No, no. Examples must be made."

Displeased, but some part of Sherlock understands. But that doesn’t mean he had to like it. Something was different about this kill — back at the warehouse, even at Janine’s cottage, they had been under direct attack. A real “us or them” situation. Yet, this man, now a corpse, head down on the table, wasn’t hurting either of them. A looming threat to their son, but nothing if they worked with the plan. 

The plan that Jim apparently wasn’t interested in. “Don’t _ever_ do that again.” Sherlock warned, catching his partner’s eye, “We’re _married_ , you don’t get to keep me out of the loop, especially when it involves _both_ of us.”

Jim’s lips thinned to a line, his immediate thought was: _And you don’t get to use that as leverage._ But it died. No. Of course Sherlock got to use that as leverage. It wasn’t a manipulation, it was just true. Even if Jim had tried to avoid something so permanent and binding, it was the truth. One he didn’t mind, “Yes, dear.” He said, with only moderate sarcasm.

He hoped it would be left there. As if to further skew the subject, he leaned over, mind now trained on William, who’d been remarkably calm through all of this. 

"Poor thing." Jim cooed, scooping up the baby into his arms, little hands flailing before finding a resting spot on either of his cheeks, "Not even a year old, and already you've had a threat on your life…" 

"Certainly beats our record." Sherlock chimed in, the fight-or-flight instinct finally settling down as he saw his son was alright. 

"Must be a family trait." He hugged the child close, then began to stand up, ready to get away from the murder scene. But as he got around the table, the detective caught his sleeve, fixing him with a pleading look, “May I?”

Jim stared a moment, as if the idea of letting him go was completely unacceptable. _But… it’s not about me._ It was plain to see that whatever he felt, it was worse for Sherlock, who hadn’t yet been able to _feel_ he was really safe. He gave a careful nod, loosening his protective hold.

Grinning, feeling his first spark of genuine happiness since he arrived back in England, Sherlock eases William into his arms, rocking him gently, "Shh. It's okay. We've got you."

 


	11. Surprise?

"Seems that foul woman has disappeared." Jim notes over breakfast, scouring a newspaper. Lackluster as they were, they occasionally held hidden kernels of interest.  

It's been a few days since William's recovery, and neither Jim nor Sherlock had been very chatty. The detective had forgiven Jim for whatever happened during their separation, and his subsequent dishonesty. If he were being completely candid, Sherlock would admit to handling the whole situation rather immaturely. But he isn't anywhere _near_ that forthright. The murder at the café still tugged at his conscience — however, it wasn’t the worst he’d ever swept under the rug. 

"Janine? Odd, you'd think with a vast army at your disposal would've found her quite easily." Sherlock said, mildly distracted while trying to feed their son, the boy trying to wriggle out of his high chair, _this is really quite the chore, especially since he's gained full use of his limbs._

"This Earth is a large place, my dear." Jim frowned, flipping to another page, "It doesn't help that I sent her to a remote area, far from any of my actual scouts…"

"I suppose it'd be easy for her to slip away in those conditions." He spoke, but wasn’t paying much attention, William trying to slap away the spoon.

"Yes… but if she so much as puts a toe into the limelight, I'll chop it off.”

"Whatever makes you happy, Jim." Sherlock mused, attempting to get William to open his mouth by mirroring the gesture, but the infant’s mouth stays sealed shut. _No, too clever to fall for that…_ Part of him regretted striving for a genius child. 

"Don't you think her capture is important?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"We've essentially rendered her powerless. Leaving her alive might actually help to set an example of what happens when you mess with us." Sherlock gave a large, fake grin, but William took that as an invitation to throw baby food at him with an obscene _splat_. 

"Usually I would agree. But I believe she's one of a very few number of people who even know William _exists_.” It’s a struggle to keep his ire as the mush paints his beloved’s face, but he powers through and does little more than throw a napkin to him, “That's a liability if I've ever heard of one."

Sherlock caught the cloth, scraping at his face, “I suppose. But very soon he'll need to go to school. People will know soon enough." Perhaps Sherlock's work-around attempts at protecting her stem from a lack of employment-related friction; he and Jim were no longer nemeses. Hadn't been for a long time. Kidnapping his child was going too far, but the idea of  _someone_ being out there that he could work against... it was quietly exhilarating.

That seemed to pacify Jim, "I don't think you're making any progress." He gestured to the baby, who had taken the _seconds_ Sherlock was cleaning himself to swipe up the jar, dumping the contents on the floor. 

Sherlock sighed, gently taking the glass from his tiny hands, "Would _you_ like to try?" 

"Of course not!" Moriarty laughed, "If it's anything like trying to get _you_ to eat…" 

The morning goes on. As do the days. Weeks. Sherlock finds himself immersed in what he once believed to be "boring civilian life," and is loathe to admit that he _enjoys_ it. When Jim is out working, Sherlock watches the baby. When Sherlock is on a case, Jim takes client calls at home. 

Mycroft drops by with some regularity, though Sherlock has decoded that while the older Holmes _does_ love his nephew, he comes by mostly to see his younger brother. 

Sometimes, if he's feeling particularly sentimental, Sherlock is happy to see Mycroft. They don't talk about it, but they really do love each other. _It's just a question of getting over the past._ Sherlock thinks as he and Mycroft carry William through the park, _Perhaps twenty years is long enough to hold resentment…_

Silently, they both move on. 

John comes by with his daughter, Mary politely declines visits. If Sherlock wants to see her, he goes to their house. It's a bit inconvenient, but he doubts Jim and Mary will push past their animosity anytime soon. He decides he'd rather not push it. 

Finally, after about three months, he gets the opportunity to ask the question that had been bothering him since the pool. 

"Seems it's all behind us now, doesn't it, pet?" Jim states as they're lying down for bed. 

"Mhm." Sherlock hums, "No more secrets?"

Moriarty turns out the lights, snuggling close to Sherlock, "None whatsoever." 

"Then… one last question… what did Janine mean by 'the other one' that I don't know about?"

If the lights were on, Sherlock would be treated to Jim's _legitimately_ _surprised_ face, "Ah, well… about _that_ …" 

 


	12. Epilogue: Jamie Irene

It turned out that there had been unused embryos from the first round of in vitro that Jim had kept frozen "just in case." The hints from the ladies involved in Sherlock’s life suddenly seemed to make sense.

Apparently, that case was if he wanted a daughter: "Well… our son is so beautiful. I couldn't help but wonder what a girl would look like…" And then, with great pride in his eyes, added, "Think of all the hearts she'll break!" 

He hadn't exactly _told_ Sherlock of his plans to do so. 

Thankfully, the detective didn't argue, "Lucky for you, I think I'd enjoy having a girl. Plus, I didn't want William to be an only child…" Then, recalling his strained relationship with Mycroft, adds, "Or significantly older than any sibling he'd have." 

"Afraid he'd turn into an utter ponce like a certain Iceman we all know?"

Sherlock smirks, still more delighted than annoyed when he can't hide anything from Jim, "Something like that."

 

* * *

 

 

She is born as William turns one and a half. They’re in the hospital, staring at her through the nursery glass. Even in a generic plastic basinet, wrapped in pink, name still “ _Baby Girl Holmes-Moriarty,_ ” she manages to stand out from the other dozen or so infants on display. 

Sherlock stands just outside the window, hand in Jim’s, speechless. In a remote corner of his mind, he suspects that if Janine hadn’t left clues, or if he hadn’t had the guts to ask directly, Jim might’ve just come home one day with another bundle in his arms. _Something to be grateful for — a baby isn’t like a new car. Takes mental preparation, especially with another still in diapers._

A nurse comes out, clad in pastel-pink scrubs, asking if they’d like to hold her. _Yes._ The first time either of them would be up close while she wasn’t covered in viscera. Jim insists on holding her first, with the pithy, rushed excuse of, “You need your hands free to write out her documents.” Sherlock pretends to buy it — after all, Jim’s the reason she exists. 

Much to the criminal’s glee, she has Sherlock's dazzling blue-crystal eyes, a small reminder of the preservation he so sought. Love of his children, but also a deep reflection of his love for his detective. Her hair color is that of his own: black with red undertones. Like her brother, she appears to have inherited muted curls, Jim twirling a wisp around his thumb. 

For the attempted surreptitiousness, Sherlock only demands the right to name her, free of the chances taken when placing a bet. 

"Jamie Irene." Sherlock writes on her birth record in a careful hand, paper against the wall, stopping to rest the pen against his bottom lip, "Holmes-Moriarty? Or just Moriarty?"

"Why would you only use mine?"

"It'd be hilarious."

"What would?"

"Her initials would spell 'Jim.'"

"I doubt she'd thank us for that." Jim smiles, but then concedes, "Holmes-Moriarty. It seems only right. It’ll still be pronounced like ‘Jim.’”

 

* * *

 

 

They convert the guest room into Jamie's, not wanting to compromise Sherlock's experiment space. Due to Jim's abhorrence of baby girl pink, the room is a soft lavender. Raising her is a little easier — she sleeps through the night, and doesn't fight mealtimes.

But her gift for observation shines through, more than once using the patterns of insects around the house to find where the sweets were hidden. 

The children grow up loved, with parents that understand their proclivities for destruction and the need to be the smartest person in the room. To Sherlock's delight, the siblings themselves get along quite well as they develop. They look out for each other, challenge the other at every turn, and are often the other's only friend ( _Sad,_ Sherlock thinks, _but probably the lot in life for every Holmes or Moriarty…_ ).

Once they enter primary school, a clear preference shows: William has a knack for causing trouble, while Jamie has a talent for never getting _caught._ So much so that she even fools her parents into thinking she's a perfect little princess. But not for long — Jim finds out she acts much like he did in his faux-innocent days.

When the time comes, Jamie takes over Jim's criminal empire: it happens so naturally, words are barely spoken. 

William, despite his love of puzzles and tendency toward Sherlock's tactless personality, decides to follow in his uncle's footsteps, and becomes a spy under Mycroft's watchful eye. One day, he hopes to take over the in the same way. 

If anyone were to ask William why he declined becoming a detective, he'd answer in his captivating voice, "That would mean carrying on my fathers' tradition, including their rivalry. I would never go directly up _against_ my sister — she's lethal. I'd sooner join her than upset her… the last time I did that, she set fire to my toys.” He has Sherlock’s lovely baritone voice, using it to his full manipulative prowess.

It's mostly a joke; he'd never _willingly_ go against her, but would if she ever became too dangerous. Though he wasn't kidding when he assumed she'd make his life hell if he ever interfered with her best laid plans (she's a rabid perfectionist, who more often than not, believed in revenge).

Jamie, meanwhile, is quite blunt when she says, "I'd never go up against my brother because he's all I've got." Of course she loves her parents and family, they both do, but their whole lives, they've always had each other. Despite her propensity for Sherlock’s cold-hearted, blind ambition, she has Jim’s gentle heart, devoted to protecting what little she holds dear. 

If it were ever between a job and her brother's happiness, she'd always choose him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... this was probably the hardest chapter I've ever had to post. It isn't "The End," as there is still one more short story after this that will wrap things up. However, this is most certainly the end of the Jim and Sherlock show. 
> 
> But ah, hasn't their life together thus far been so beautiful? Five years, mayhem, marriage, mischief, love, violence, and two lovely children. Forgive the eulogy, but I will miss this story so terribly.


End file.
